Pushing Frames
by JYLG
Summary: Kubota and Tokitoh and snippets of their wayward lives. Series spoilers.
1. Fairytale Living

Standard disclaimers apply.

I. Fairytale Living

Once upon a time I had a god. She had soft, white hands and a thin, red smile and eyes the colour of bitterness. She might have been beautiful once, but I was her decay, as she would always tell me, and I could smell the truth on her breath and feel it in the nails curled so hard into my skin on the rare days when she would stumble on me in her misfortune. And it didn't matter, because it was the only time she was close enough for me to wipe at the grief in her eyes and on her cheeks, if she would have let me.

But she never did, because I could never touch her the way she did me. She was a god in her favourite kimono and perfume when he came for dinner, the glitter in her eyes and on her lips across the table, so far away. By the time I was old enough to understand that such favours could never be for me, it was too late to care.

So I died to my god, and my god died to me, and I went to live with a man who I could call 'uncle' if I wanted to, and not feel it a lie. He was no god, but he gave me my first smoke, and I tasted again the familiar tang of bitterness. I have tasted gum and cream and jam and ice since but they don't last, so I don't need them.

Once upon a time I had a cat that wouldn't go away, and I became a god to blind attachment and trust. I thought vaguely that maybe this was what it would have been like, if I had held on to her. But I didn't hate the cat, and I liked animals better anyway, better than the humans and the gods that they created for themselves.

Then I found him one afternoon, and I realised that he needed a god because he was weak. And because his god had failed him, he was lying on the sidewalk in a mess of blood and guts. And maybe humans and animals weren't so different after all, and I knew then, that that would be me, with my blood and guts spilling out of me. And it made me want to laugh – maybe because it didn't matter, since I could die again and again and not hurt. Because when you don't care and when you don't have anything, the only thing you can be born to do is die.

Once upon a time I tested that fate. I learnt how to hold a gun so the recoil wouldn't numb my arm, and learnt to tell one powder from the other. And I played the game, and in the beginning, it was more real in my blood than any challenge a video game could give me. And I thought it would last longer than anything else before, because this time I was winning.

But Komiya died, a jumble of pain and exhaustion and longing in the doorway, and this time I could wipe at the tears on his face, because I knew he would have let me, if he had still been breathing. Sitting there in the doorway I thought about all the promises I could have made and the emotions I could have felt. And the game was over, because being alive here didn't mean that I was living. And that was something Komiya deserved, at least.

Once upon a time I left behind a game with fewer players and a bunch of weeds in a cigarette carton. Nothing else had changed, but I was still alive. And that may not have mattered, because I once had a cat that had been born to die, and humans are not that different from animals.

But I picked up another cat, one that reviled touch and didn't trust as blindly, and didn't need a god, because he wasn't weak. And sometimes I think that maybe this is what it could have been like, if she had loved me. But I don't miss something I never had. Which is why I won't let go of what I have now. He will not die, because he isn't weak. And I will not die yet, because I want that strength for myself.

We'll never get our happily ever after, the two of us. Not the glow and fuzz of a bright, unending future. But there are so many ways to live, and now, in this moment, this is good enough.

-End-


	2. Memoriam

Standard disclaimers apply.

II. Memoriam

Kubo-chan remembers not with red ink and calendars but with flowers and tobacco. He knows this because Kubo-chan likes tobacco, which goes without saying. It lingers in the sofa fabric and in the sheets and never quite goes away when Kubo-chan breathes at night. He also knows that Kubo-chan likes flowers enough to scrooge on dinner whenever the special discount sign goes up in the flower shop two blocks down. It's almost embarrassing the way he cradles the plant like a babe when they walk home, but Kubo-chan remains unfazed because flowers are also living things and fragile, so there's no difference.

They don't get to live as long though, he would have argued, isn't that the biggest difference of all? But he says nothing, because he knows that Kubo-chan knows this, when he buys a single bloom. Sometimes a carnation, sometimes a marigold, the names means nothing to him; it's only the colours that he remembers, when Kubo-chan transfers the flower into a small, decrepit pot and it preens superior against the drab white of the balcony walls.

And he knows that Kubo-chan likes flowers because he hums to them. He fidgets awake at dawn sometimes to stumble outside where the balcony windows are open, and he falls onto the low sofa where he sometimes sleeps best. And it's the best kind of sleep, because sometimes late in the evening, when the TV is off and the balcony windows are open, he doesn't remember settling under the covers of the bed when he fidgets awake at dawn.

Kubo-chan likes flowers, but they can't live so long, no matter how much Kubo-chan waters or hums to them. He wonders sometimes at the capability to throw them out after so much tending, but Kubo-chan shrugs because they were cheap, and it's easier to throw out one flower than a bunch. And his hand curls into a fist tight enough for the claws to break the skin, because his existence is worth nothing and he's a pretty big stray to bring home.

But Kubo-chan remembers not with red ink and calendars but with flowers and tobacco. It makes sense when the flowers on the balcony are nothing more than wildflower weeds, and the decrepit flower pot sits empty in one corner, when in the other the flowers sit in a crumpled carton of Kubo-chan's favourite cigarettes. Kubo-chan is not smoking or humming when he stumbles out of the bedroom. He falls onto the sofa but he can't sleep. Kubo-chan's back is turned and his shoulders hunched as he hangs over the balcony.

It's been about a year.

And because Kubo-chan has no cigarettes, it's fortunate that the convenience store down the road is open 24 hours. Kubo-chan is already dressed and lifting his coat off the rack when he pushes himself off the sofa and into the bedroom, yelling at the other boy to wait for him. He yells some more when Kubo-chan says he can make the short foray alone, and comes out with his shirt half over his head and still yelling, but Kubo-chan has wandered into the laundry to pile clothes into the washing machine.

He moves to close the balcony windows, but weeds though they are, the flowers are a vibrant yellow that has him crouching nearer. The washing machine has not yet started, so he stares some more before nodding decisively.

"You like him too." He nods again, a shared secret.

"I won't let him die so easily."

He gets up and slides the balcony windows shut, and when he turns around, he is humming.

-End-


	3. Word After

Standard disclaimers apply.

III. Word After

They didn't keep regular hours, not like some cliché TV drama family. But it was close on 8.30pm, Kubo-chan didn't have some wife waiting with dinner cooling on the table, and Tokitoh couldn't cook for peanuts.

_"Hey."_

_"Mm, something wrong?"___

_"…why d'you always ask me that when I call?"___

_"Well, if that's not it, I miss you too."_

_"…whatever, you dork. There's nothing to eat."_

_"There's curry in the fridge."_

_"There's been curry in the fridge for the last three days!"_

_"That's two days better than the last time."_

_"I'm sick of curry, okay? Can you just buy something on your way back?"_

_"Hmm, I'll see what I can do."_

_"Yeah, well, bye then."_

_"Mm, later."___

But later was two and a half hours too long, and Tokitoh was bored, bad-tempered and hungry. He scowled sourly up at the ceiling from where he was sprawled on the low sofa, and turned onto his side to glare at the paused game on the TV until some of the tension in his shoulders eased, and he could flip the lid of his mobile open again with some measure of calm.

But he hadn't closed his mailbox, and he narrowed his eyes at the stupid words on the screen, matching them grim stare for grim stare. No shit you're running late, Kubo-chan. You could've told me earlier.

The tick in his jaw just wouldn't go away though, when he tried to pretend that he wasn't being stupid himself. The 24-hour convenience store wasn't so far off, and Kubo-chan had a little cash stashed away in the old ice cream carton on the top shelf to the right of the sink. Thrashing Don King Kong could have waited more than an hour ago.

But that would have defeated the whole point of calling Kubo-chan.

Tokitoh snapped his mobile shut to scowl up at the ceiling again. He could go out now, but he didn't know how late was late. And the dumbass hadn't said he wasn't bringing dinner back, so he could save himself the trip and wait.

Which was what he had been doing for the last two and a half hours.

"Augh!" Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't thrown the curry out, if only because he hadn't want to touch it unless necessary.

Getting to his feet, he dropped the mobile disdainfully onto the couch and trudged reluctantly into the kitchen, only to scramble back into the living area when it buzzed with another message. Come on Kubo-chan, ask me what I want to eat 'cos I will even settle for those cheap bentos you like. Tell me you're five minutes away so I can hang over the balcony and yell at you for being late.

_Sorry, looks like it's curry tonight after all. _

Blithely forgetting what he had been about to do a scant moment earlier, Tokitoh vehemently vowed not to touch the crap. Dropping his mobile again, he swung around and stomped disgustedly into the bedroom.

Fixing his collar with one hand when he came out, he tossed the jacket over the back of the sofa, and blinked when his mobile buzzed again. Picking it up with his right hand, he flipped the lid open on his way to the kitchen, and his fingers curled involuntarily into the plastic.

_Won't be home so soon._

He had left the balcony doors open the last time, and Kubo-chan had come back to an apartment chilly with the dawn and him red-eyed and sniffling on the couch. Tokitoh had promised not to do it again, and he'd made his point, but he still slept on the outer side of the bed anyway, daring and denying leave beyond the body boundary.

But damn it, when Kubo-chan pulled this kind of shit on him, what else could he do? Tokitoh trudged into the kitchen and reached absently above the sink with his free hand. Kubo-chan had promised too, but you idiot, one stupid line is still keeping things to yourself. Coward, call me so I can hear it in your voice.

He jammed the coins into one pocket of his jeans, and was only half-surprised when his other fist again hummed dully through the leather. Already hating the sound, he waited for it to stop before he unfurled his fingers with another scowl. Well shit, it wasn't his money, Kubo-chan could send as many messages as he want.

_Something came up._

And despite what Kubo-chan hadn't said, his lips quirked horribly because of what he did say. So yeah, the idiot hadn't forgotten – brownie points for trying. And Tokitoh would know anyway, even if Kubo-chan didn't say as much; nothing else would keep the guy away so long.

"That _bastard_," he growled, savagely pulling on his jacket, and grimacing when leather glove and mobile caught awkwardly in one sleeve. That fucking old man just didn't know when to leave him and Kubo-chan alone. He was hungry and he was furious, and he was – he was going to…

Well, shit. At the front door he jerked on his shoes and glared holes into the wood. He didn't feel like going to the convenience store anymore, but that would mean calling Kubo-chan instead. And somehow that wasn't such a good idea right now.

Shit. _Shit_. All bets off – that was how the old man forced them to play. He lifted his right hand and scowled at the mobile. His bane, his link. He could walk out blind or retreat back to the couch now, and neither one was going to do him any good. So, so…

He flipped the lid open and jabbed at the buttons before the mobile was done buzzing. A scant moment later the door slammed in his wake. It just had to be a really cold night, and he took the stairs in reckless jumps.

He knew Kubo-chan was trying, or he wouldn't be spending a small fortune on text messages. But old habits die hard, and Kubo-chan always had secrets to keep. Tokitoh wasn't expecting any immediate confessions, and he guessed one-liners were a good start. But hell, only Kubo-chan could say so _much _in so little.

_Don't worry_.

Ah shit, don't blame me. It's your fault that I'm coming for you.

You owe me dinner.

-End-


End file.
